


Poseidon's Child

by michi_thekiller



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kidlock, M/M, Merlock, Siren!Sherlock, dark!Merlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/pseuds/michi_thekiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ocean is full of dangerous things, John's mum has always warned him. But perhaps John hasn't always been so good at listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this story, you should check out venvephe's ["and the sea so deep"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/716786/chapters/1327609), a wonderful dark!Merlock. Jill and I have spent many hours discussing Mer, and she has spent much time researching Mer-biology and anatomy, and you will see some of our combined headcanon throughout this story.

On nights when the moon is full and bright as polished bone, and the sea pulls away from the earth in rising tides, there is a song that spirals deep in the whorls of John’s mind.

If he closes his eyes and listens, there it is - next to the beat of his heart. He can feel it like a pulse, often unnoticed,  always present. Melancholy is the melody, and how it haunts him. It slithers into all the dark crevices of his mind, curls up like a snake in the hollow.

And, if he’s not careful, he will make out the words of the chorus, softly crooning " _come to me, come to me._ ”

He’s heard it since he was a child, and wondered why his mother forbade him from the windows at night, why she barricaded his bedroom door. He wondered why, when he asked about the ocean, he was always quickly shushed.  

Now he finally understands, with a bubble of sound caught in his throat, the moonlight on the gleam of scales and wet skin pressed against him. Strong arms with corded muscle slide around him, wrap around him and trap him, sinuous steel, and wet lips press to his ear.

  
Now, he understands, when a voice so awfully familiar says, “I have been waiting for you for so long"  - melodic and deep, and terrifyingly triumphant.


	2. Chapter 2

Mummy said that the ocean was vast and wide and full of danger, but so far all that John had seen of it was some shells, a lot of sand, and a little crab that scuttled away when he attempted to scoop it up with his shovel. 

He was not allowed to go swimming on his own, even though his instructor said he was a natural. “Just like a tadpole,” Greg had chuckled, and John had wondered, with great interest, if this meant that one day he would grow into a frog.  

But tadpoles, Mummy said, only fared well in ponds and lakes, and were not very strong swimmers in the ocean. All it would take was a strong tide to sweep him out to sea, and he’d be lost forever.

It had happened only last summer to a boy who was quite a few years older than John, nearly a teen, almost. He had swum out too far and then disappeared. It had been all over the news: images of policemen and their dogs roaming the beach, boats with their torches floating out far into the water, even helicopters with their great big searchlights that spread out over the ocean like pale, fluorescent moons. But the dark water had stubbornly refused to give up its secrets, and nothing of the boy was ever found, as if the sea had simply swallowed him up.

 “Don’t you dare go near the water,” Harry warned him, “you just sit here and...build sandcastles or something, whatever it is you do.” She was meant to look after him, Mummy said, but John didn’t know how much looking after a person could do when her eyes were very busy looking at this pretty girl with warm brown skin and dark hair, and her pretty little pink polka-dot bikini. 

He saw them later, chasing each other in the water, giggling and splashing and acting silly. He looked back to where Mummy sat, higher up on the beach, in her hat and sunglasses. She was busy reading her book with the shirtless muscley man on the cover who was struggling to hold up a lady in what appeared to be some sort of windstorm.  Daddy snoozed on the beach blanket, the radio crackling out the game, and if John listened real hard, he thought he could hear him snore.

It was very hot on the beach, with the sun beaming down on John’s back and shoulders and warm in his golden hair. The water glistened, the sunlight sparkling on it as if someone had upended a jar of coins all over the rolling blue blanket of ocean, like the time when John had emptied his piggybank all over his bed - only this was a hundred, million times more vast.

The water would feel so nice right now. The wet sand would be cool, squishing between his toes. And over on the side of the beach, jutting out into the water, there was a cave, its open mouth inviting exploration. Caves, John knew, were always full of exciting things, like dragons and pirate treasure. Or even dragon pirate treasure.

He took one last look around at Harry - still splashing, tackling the other girl into the water; at Mummy - still reading, finger in her mouth, book cover no less confusing; at Daddy - still snoring, turning slightly red on his chest and tummy because he never put on enough sunscreen, and Mummy always yelled at him for it.

Then John took up his pail and shovel - because a weapon was necessary, for adventures, and a shovel was as good as any.

He headed for the cave.

 

 

 

*

 

The cave was easy enough to get to, with only a few rocks to climb over, and John was very careful where the rocks were wet and slippery. At the entrance of the cave, the water was only up to his shins, warmed by the sun, and the sand did indeed squish delightfully between his toes.

Inside, along the edges of the cave there was sand to walk on, with water pooling in the middle. Water reflected light onto the ceiling in dreamlike patterns of nets and waves. 

Deeper into the cave, it was quite dark, only getting darker and darker where the sunlight couldn’t reach. It made John feel like he was standing at the entrance of a long tunnel that went on forever. Or maybe it went deep, deep into the earth, into a world where no sunlight shone, and entire cities sprung up like clusters of mushrooms, flourishing by lamplight and fireflies and glow worms alone. There was no real way of knowing. 

John wasn’t afraid of the dark - not since Mummy had explained the truth about monsters and the good forces that fought them -  but he did wish that he’d brought a torch.

There was a sudden loud splashing sound coming from inside the cave where it got all dark, echoing off the walls.

It was too loud, too strong, to just be the water pushing against the rocks, and John spent just one second being startled, a little bit scared, before overwhelming curiosity washed that all away.

He approached slowly, edging along the cave walls, with his shovel brandished out in front of him and his pail as a shield. Slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and that was when he made out the shape of a boy sitting amongst some large rocks.

“Hello?” John called, uncertain, into the darkness. His own voice echoed back at him from the depths of the cave.  

“Oh, good,” said the boy. “Come help me get out of here.” 

“Are you stuck?” asked John as he approached. He was a young boy, just about John’s age, maybe a little bit younger but definitely not older. He had pale skin and dark, curly hair, and wide, pale eyes that seemed to almost glow in the low light. 

The boy rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Do you think I’d still be here if I weren’t stuck?” He held out a small, wet hand. “Help me out.”

“Where’s your mummy and daddy?” John asked, because he was sure his Mummy and Daddy would be scared to death if he were stuck somewhere. He also knew that in any sort of trouble situation, you were meant to get a grown-up to sort it all out.

“They’re in the ocean,” the boy said, which made sense. If they were swimming like Harry, and the boy had gone exploring like John, it could take a while before they noticed that their little boy was missing. It also meant that it would take more time for John to find them than to try and help the boy out himself.

“Come on,” the boy said, and wiggled his fingers impatiently.

“What’s your name?” John asked, as he took the boy’s hand in one of his. 

“Sherlock,” the boy replied, and he held out his other hand expectantly, for John to take. It wasn’t a name like any John had ever heard before, although he’d only just started school and certainly hadn’t heard all the names there ever were. 

“What’s yours?” Sherlock asked, his cool fingers wrapping around John’s wrist.

“John.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated to himself. “ _John_ ,” he said again, as if trying out how to say the name right, like John did, when trying out a new word that he’d just learnt. Sherlock smiled to himself, then, the kind of smile you got when you’d just had a sweet and it tasted particularly nice.

For some reason, the way Sherlock said his name made John feel a pleasant little tingle, in his tummy and shivering up his chest.

“Come on, then, John, let’s count to three,” Sherlock said. He looked at John skeptically. “You _can_ count, right?”

“Of course I can count to _three!_ ” John said, as he had learned to count to one hundred just a few weeks ago.

“Then, on three.”

They counted together, then, and on three, John pulled while Sherlock pushed, and John pulled harder than he’d ever pulled before, like he was trying to beat Harry in a game of tug of war (which he always lost), but he pulled with all his might and Sherlock pushed and there was a lot of splashing until John ended up falling backwards, flat on his back with Sherlock squirming on top of him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, a little breathless. He pushed himself off of John, and John got himself up, and that was when he saw Sherlock examining himself, hand running down his own...tail.

Sherlock had a tail. Like a fish or a dolphin but a tail, a fishy tail, with fins and scales and _everything._

Sherlock also had fins attached to his ears, which John could see now, now that the two of them were closer. They’d been partially covered by his dark hair before.

“ _Wow_ ,” John breathed, eyes wide and full of wonder. “Are you a...a...mer...thing?”

Because mer _maids_ were girls, obviously. So Sherlock couldn’t be that.

Sherlock gave John a funny look, the same way that he’d looked when he wasn’t sure if John could count to three or not. “I’m a boy,” Sherlock said slowly.  

“Well, yeah,” John said, and that had been clear to him from, well, the waist up. “But I’ve never met any boys with tails before.”

“Well, I’ve never met any boys without tails, so there you have it,” Sherlock said.

John considered this, and it made a lot of sense. He giggled a little, then, because the situation was kind of silly once he thought about it that way, and Sherlock giggled too. 

“How did you get stuck?” John asked, watching Sherlock’s tail wave lazily from side to side, making smooth curves in the sand.  

“Low tide,” Sherlock said. “When the tide comes in the cave fills up with water, so I could swim in, but the water’s too low when the tide goes out.”

John thought of the cave filling up with water, all the way up, like the tub when Mummy drew a bath for him. He took in a quick, deep breath.

“Does the water go down real quick?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied. “It takes some time. But you can only look at tidepools after the tide’s gone out.”

Tidepools, John knew, were full of interesting things, like shells and clams and see-an-enemies and little crabs. He nodded with understanding. It made sense that Sherlock would want to look at them, because John wanted to look at these things too.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, and slid easily into the pool in the middle of the cave. The water was still quite shallow, but it was enough for Sherlock to slide on, pulling himself forward with his hands and his tail pushing, strong and undulating. It was like watching a little seal move, except Sherlock didn’t look silly doing it like John thought he would. He looked graceful the way that animals did, sliding along smoothly. His tail gleamed silvery-blue as he moved, in the darkness towards the light.

John followed him, his little pail in hand, rattling gently with the shovel and the shells and stones he’d collected earlier that day. Sherlock stopped near the entrance of the cave, where the sunlight still spilled in, and laid back on the warm sand and shallow water, sunning himself.

Sherlock’s skin was so pale, like the underbelly of a dolphin. John wondered if Sherlock’s Mummy had to tell him to put on sunscreen too, but John couldn’t imagine him turning red like his Daddy.

Sherlock’s tail sparkled in the sun like new coins and glitter, like treasure. When he lifted it up, the fin on the end shone sheer, and it flowed like silk when he swished it about in the water.

“You can touch, if you like,” Sherlock said, noting John’s interest. John hoped he had not been staring. Mummy said that was a rude thing to do. But then again, if he hadn’t stared, then Sherlock would not have said it was okay to touch it.

“Oh!” John said, dropped his pail and went down to his knees in the water, so that he could put both small hands on Sherlock’s tail. “It’s so smooth,” he said, because it was, it was so nice to touch, all slippery and smooth. Like nothing John had ever touched before. The slide of it underneath his little fingers was fascinating.

He said, “Thank you,” quickly, remembering his manners.

“Your hands are so warm,” Sherlock said, and he smiled.

John ran his hands up Sherlock’s tail and stopped where his tummy was, where the scales scattered, fading into skin. He looked up to Sherlock for permission. Sherlock nodded.

Sherlock’s skin, on the human boy part of him (and not the fishy boy part of him) was warm and soft, just like John’s. His hands, John noticed now, had thin, transparent webbing between his fingers, up to the first knuckle. There were lines across his neck like John had seen on pictures of sharks. They fluttered, a little, with Sherlock’s laughing breath, when John asked to touch.

“You’re _amazing_ ,” John said, because Sherlock was, all of him, a mer- well, boy, with a tail, with everything. Sherlock preened, twisting his tail so that all his scales gleamed handsomely in the sun. His smile was sharp and white.

The fins on Sherlock’s ears reminded John a bit of butterfly wings, the way they were so pretty and delicate, and especially the way they flickered under his fingers. The action sprinkled John with droplets of water, making them both giggle as Sherlock shook his head. 

“That tickles,” Sherlock said warmly. He turned and slapped his tail into the water, splashing John playfully with a small wave of water.

“Hey!” John squealed, and used his both his hands to hit at the water, splashing Sherlock back. His hands weren’t as good for splashing as Sherlock’s tail was, but he still managed to get Sherlock quite wet.

Sherlock shook himself off like a dog, splattering John with great big drops of seawater. John giggled, holding his hands up to try and shield himself from the sudden unexpected shower.

“Now,” Sherlock said, pale eyes laughing and bright, “let me look at you.”

And so John did. He let Sherlock examine his fingers, and he told him how the fingertips turned all wrinkly and old when he sat in the bath too long. He giggled when Sherlock touched his legs, and let him peel a plaster off one knee to sniff at the scrape beneath it. He had to stop Sherlock from licking it, however, because he wasn’t sure if licking was good for healing cuts and scrapes. Instead he let Sherlock lick the bruise on his shin, since that was just skin, and the tickling, wet sensation of Sherlock’s quick tongue made him laugh.

Sherlock rested both his hands on the waistband of John’s red swimming trunks. “This comes off, right?” he asked. “Can I see?” He was curious, like a cat.

“I dunno,” said John, because Mummy had said that places covered up by pants and bathing suits were private, and that meant they weren’t to be shown to anybody. Except Mummy and Daddy saw those parts all the time, when they gave him baths. “Mummy says I shouldn’t.” 

“Your Mummy’s not here, John,” Sherlock said, soft little voice going low for a second. The way  Sherlock said his name was funny, with a little musical hum to it. It made a hum vibrate through John's body as well, as if he were a string on a guitar or a harp being gently plucked. Sherlock's tail swished back and forth, the water curving out in tranquil waves around him. “Just a little look?” 

“Hmm,” John said, considering it for a moment. “Well, okay. Just a little peek.”

Sherlock smiled up at him, gracious, and then he peered inside, his damp curls brushing against John’s tummy. “Wow!” he said.

“That is _odd_ ,” he said.

“Okay, no more looking,” John said quickly, pushing Sherlock away. He eyed him funnily. “Don’t you have one?” He looked down at Sherlock’s tail. Maybe he didn’t.

“Well, _something_ like that,” Sherlock sniffed. “But not like _that._ ” He giggled.

“Then let me see it,” John said, wanting to know how weird that looked. “It’s only fair.”

“Oh, it’s boring,” Sherlock replied, and waved his hand dismissively. “Besides, it’s hidden. It’s a hassle to get it out.”

“No fair!” John pouted, but quieted when Sherlock put both his hands on his shoulders. They were cool, and soft.

“I’m not done looking at you,” Sherlock said.  

He put both hands on the sides of John’s neck.

“You don’t have gills,” he said, and he stroked, very gently, along the sides of John’s neck. His fingers were slippery like little fish. John giggled at the tickle of them sliding, smooth against his skin.

“Right here,” Sherlock said, “is where I would cut them for you.”

“You would cut them?” John asked, dark blue eyes wide.

“Of course,” Sherlock told him. “It wouldn’t hurt any. Well. It would only hurt real quick, just for a moment. And then you could breathe underwater, just like me.”   

“Oh,” John said, letting out a little breath.

“There’s a whole other world, under the water,” Sherlock said, “Full of things to see.”

“Really?” asked John.

And so Sherlock told him.

He told him about the size of whales, like giants, and how they sang to one another, the songs travelling great distances in the ocean. He told him about jellyfish, drifting slowly, gracefully through the water - some of them small, little translucent moons they could fit in the palms of their hands (but watch out for the sting, John); some of them metres and metres long, their tentacles streaming like colourful ribbons behind them. He told him how he saw a new kind of jelly every day, and how he catalogued them, and he figured, at this rate, he would have to be fifty before he saw them all.

He told John about fish, all the different, wonderful kinds of fish, their colours and shapes and sizes, and the way they moved through water. How you could get lost in a school of them and all around you would be thousands of flashes of moving silver. His fingers traced careful patterns on John’s collarbones, and he told John how they could have tea in the skeleton of a whale. They could chase each other and play hide and seek, darting in and out of the massive white columns of its ribcage. He told John about how he swam with dolphins, leaping as they leapt, swimming underneath them, and how a dolphin would let you hold onto its fin for a breathtaking ride.

His eyes were gleaming as he told John about the creatures of the deep, monstrous and strange, fish with lights and giant jaws and animals that didn’t look like anything real at all. His fingers stroked the soft blonde hair at the base of John’s skull as he told him about the intelligence of an octopus, although they were all tentacles and no brain, and how you could engage one in a game, if only you had the time and the wisdom to ask.

Sherlock told John about the shipwrecks he’d seen, what treasures there were to be found. He told him about pirate ships that still had the pirates inside, adorned with swords and guarding treasure in the afterlife. He stroked John's throat again, tickling him, making John giggle, while he described the wreckage of a giant ship, torn in half when it met an iceberg. He told John about what the sun looked like, glowing and wavering, when you looked up at it from the depths of darkest water.

"There are so many things in the ocean," Sherlock said. "Things you can't even imagine."

"Like you?" John asked. He took a quick little breath when Sherlock slipped his small, cool hand down, and rested it right over where John's heart would be.

"Like me," Sherlock said, and smiled his bright little smile. "Come with me, and I'll show you everything."

"Yes!" said John, excitement fizzing  up inside of him, like bubbles rising to the surface. "Can I bring Harry?" Harry would love to see these things, he was sure. They always went on adventures together.

"No brothers," Sherlock said.

"Harry's my sister."

"No brothers, no sisters, no other humans," Sherlock sing-songed, "no one else, just you, only you."

John considered this for a moment. While it would have been nice to share it with Harry, maybe it was better to go on his own with Sherlock. Then it would be something super-special, and he could tell her all about it after.

"Okay," John said, happily. "But I have to be home in time for dinner."

"No, you don't," Sherlock cooed. "You can have dinner with me."

"Well, okay," John said, "but I have to let Mummy know if I'm going to be having dinner at your house."

"No, you don't," Sherlock said, "You don't have to tell your Mummy anything. You don't have to tell anyone anything, if you come with me. No one will tell you what to do, anymore."

"Oh," John said, suddenly unsure. Something about the way Sherlock was talking made John realise that he didn't want John to come just for a little while, just for dinner or a sleepover.

“When would I go home again?” John asked, slowly and carefully.

“You’ll have a new home, with me,” Sherlock said. “You’ll sleep on a bed of soft sand, and seaweed will a pillow make, and I’ll cover you with a blanket of waves. I’ll curl up around you and keep you warm.”

His smile was so sweet, sharp little white teeth showing.

“Oh,” said John, and bit his lip. “But what about my friends and family?”

“I’ll be your friend and family,” Sherlock said simply.

“But my Mummy and Daddy,” John said. “They’d worry. They would miss me.”

“They will be sad, for a little while,” Sherlock admitted. “But then they’ll have another little boy, just like you. And then they’ll forget, the way humans always do. _I_ wouldn’t want another little boy, just you. I would think you’re special. _I_ wouldn’t forget.”

“Oh,” John said, “Oh no.” His eyes stung with the prickle of fresh tears at the thought of being replaced and forgotten.

“Don’t be sad,” Sherlock cooed. He rubbed at John’s chest, right over his heart. “We’ll be best friends, and play all day. No one would ever tell you ‘no’ or ‘don’t’ or yell at you. You’d never get in trouble. Doesn’t that sound nice?”  

“Yeah,” John said, because it did, it really did. 

And what Sherlock said made so much sense. A year ago their doggy had died, and everybody cried and was sad for a while. But then a few months later they’d gotten a new puppy, a bouncy and soft thing that John had named Gladstone, and now they rarely talked about their old doggy anymore.

It would be like that, but with John and another little boy. Harry would have a new little brother, and his parents would have another son. John swallowed hard to fight the lump in his throat. Sherlock's eyes sparkled like sunlight on water: promising and bright.

But then John thought of his Mummy’s face, all sad and crying. Daddy would be sad, too. Maybe even Harry would miss having someone to boss around.

“Sherlock, I can’t,” John said softly, and sadly.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock said, and the melodic thrum of his name made John want to, really want to. He wanted to say ‘ _yes!_ ’ - happily, eagerly, ‘ _yes!_ ’ -just to hear Sherlock say his name like that all the time.

Then John thought of tears on Mummy’s face, tears he had never seen before, as she called his name over and over, when he couldn’t answer her, could never answer her again.

“I can’t,” John said, shaking his head, and he stepped back, pulling away.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed suddenly, glaring, his look turning hard as jagged rocks. He shoved John backwards with a little hiss. John stumbled, falling back and landing on his bottom in the water with a great big splash.

Sherlock’s body twisted and he moved towards the water, and then, with one, two leaps he was in the water, disappearing quickly into the waves that lapped against the rocks.

John looked into the water, feeling a horrible sadness welling up in chest that he’d chased Sherlock away. He hadn’t wanted to be rude, he hadn’t wanted to be mean, but he’d offended Sherlock something awful, and now the magical boy was gone. Probably forever. He looked back at the cave, just a great big hole in a rock, really, no longer promising now that Sherlock was no longer here. Maybe he would try and find Harry, who would refuse to play with him because she’d found a pretty girl to play with instead. Or maybe he’d go back up the beach to sit with Mummy and Daddy, and be told to play quietly, that it was too hot to run around, and why didn’t he find Harry if he wanted to splash in the water?

The afternoon seemed so ordinary now. Boring. He hit the water dejectedly, sending up an unsatisfying, pathetic little plop of droplets.

The shells and stones in his pail were dry now, and they revealed themselves to be such dull shades of brown and grey, no longer the gleaming jewels they’d seemed when he had first picked them up from where they had been embedded in the wet sand. That was exactly what had happened to his whole afternoon, his whole day, his whole life. The water had all dried up from it, leaving behind only dullness and salt.

John kicked at the water, making a little splash and letting out a big sigh. He put his chin in his hands and he wished, hard, so very hard, for Sherlock to come back.  

He probably never see him again. He would probably never experience anyone so magical again, not in his whole life.

A small dark head reappeared in the distance, breaking the waves.

“Sherlock!” John cried, unable to contain his own joy and not caring one bit.

“Here,” Sherlock said, as he shimmied up out of the water. He held out one wet little fist. When John held out his open palm, Sherlock dropped a small stone into it, only a little bit larger than a pebble. It was smooth and round and shining with wetness. At first glance, it was a pale blue, but then it looked grey or possibly green, depending on how John held it in the light.  

“It’s a token,” Sherlock said, and used both hands to curl John’s fingers for him, so that his  small hand closed into a fist around it. “The stone has been taken by the sea, and the waves toss it and churn it for a hundred years, and in the end it becomes all polished, beautiful and smooth.”  

“Thank you,” John said, for the gift of the very pretty stone. He looked down at his hand and then up at Sherlock’s pale and pretty eyes. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I wasn’t going to,” said Sherlock. “But then I remembered something we could do.”  He tapped his fingertips, three times, against John’s closed fist.

“If you won’t come with me,” he said, “then you must make a promise.”

“What kind of promise?” John wanted to know.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed pure silver for a moment when the light shone on them, like John had seen Buttons’ - his cat’s - eyes do, in the dark.

“The forever kind.”

“Forever,” John said. “That’s a very, very long time.”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “But don’t you want to be best friends, for a very, very long time?” He looked at John earnestly.

“Of course!”  

Because John did.

“Then we must make a contract,” said Sherlock. 

“What’s a contract?” 

“It’s like a pact.”

“What’s a pact?” John asked, as this had not clarified anything for him. He had only just started school this year, after all, and had never heard these words before.

“Oh, it’s just another word for a promise,” Sherlock told him. “But it can’t be broken. And you mustn’t forget.”

“I wouldn’t want to break a promise,” John said. “And I won’t forget.”

“Good!” Sherlock chirped. “Then give me your wrist.”

John did, and felt his heart quicken with the way Sherlock was running his wet fingers up and down the inside of his wrist gently. There was something special and exciting about the way Sherlock was looking at him, but John didn’t know what. He’d never gotten excited over just being looked at before.

“Say your name, your whole name, and say ‘I agree to the contract,’” Sherlock said. “That’s a special thing you have to say. Oh! And you have to say, ‘I do it freely.’”

“Well, it’s not costing me any money.”

“No!” Sherlock giggled. “That means you do it because you want to.”

“Oh!” said John. “Okay, I want to.”

 _“Then say it,”_ Sherlock said, his whole little body sliding closer in the shallow water, hand still on John’s wrist. His voice had taken on that odd, pleasant little thrum to it again, that made John feel like he was listening to a lullaby.    

“John Hamish Watson,” John said. “I agree to the contract and I do it freely.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, smiling with all his sharp little teeth showing. His tail slapped the water with a happy little splash, and when it swished it created waves around both of them.

“This will hurt,” Sherlock said, “But real quick, just for a moment.”

And before John could ask what was going to hurt, Sherlock opened his mouth and bit down on John’s wrist, piercing the soft flesh with his sharp white teeth.

John gasped, feeling the razor-cut of pain, but he’d always been good about handling pain, he never even cried at getting injections, and something told him he couldn’t yank his wrist away. Sherlock’s fingers were curled tight on his wrist, his grip iron-strong.

The pain did only last a second, because then Sherlock was licking the bite wound with soft flickering tongue, cool and wet, soothing away the hurt. John watched, fascinated, as his own blood dripped out. Sherlock’s mouth was smeared with red.

And then Sherlock lifted his own wrist to his mouth and bit down as well. His blood was a dark, dark red, rich with a slight sliver gleam - thicker than John’s, its drip so slow.  He took their two wrists and pressed them together, their veins cut open and flowing, their blood mixing together.

It felt warm and nice where his wrist touched Sherlock’s, almost a glowy sort of feeling, John thought, and it didn’t hurt.

By the time Sherlock let their wrists go, the blood had stopped dripping. “And there’s one more part to seal it,” Sherlock said. His hands touched lightly on John’s shoulders. John found himself looking into large, luminous eyes, the colour of sky over ocean, or perhaps the colour of ocean after a storm. John sucked in a quick little breath. Sherlock’s face was very close.

Wet hands cupped John’s face then, and Sherlock pressed their mouths together, touching light and soft.

His lips were soft against John’s, and John remembered belatedly that he should close his eyes or something. Sherlock’s lips parted and he exhaled; his breath was a warm sea breeze, wafting inside of John’s mouth.

It was over in a moment. Sherlock pulled back, and nodded, as if satisfied with his work. John licked his wet lips and they tasted salty and coppery, of seawater and blood.

“That’s weird,” John giggled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought only boys and girls were supposed to kiss.”

“Well, you can’t kiss any girls,” Sherlock said, “Because you have to kiss me.”

John considered this. He really didn’t see what was the big kerfuffle over kissing girls anyway, most of the ones he’d met he would never ever want to kiss, not in a million years. And if any of them were like Harry, he _definitely_  didn’t want to kiss them!

“All right,” John said. “But maybe a little less wet next time.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed, finding John’s terms reasonable. He splashed John with his tail, playfully, making him laugh and splash back.

“John! John, you little idiot, where’ve you gotten to? _John!_ ” Harry’s voice called, in the distance but coming nearer. 

“I have to go,” Sherlock said quickly. “Nobody else can see me. And you mustn’t tell anybody about me, do you understand? It’s our secret.”

“Mm hmm,” John nodded, because he knew that this was how magic things worked. “But how will I see you again?”

“That’s easy,” said Sherlock. “I’ll call for you, when the time is right, and you’ll come to me.”

“All right!” John said. Sherlock flashed him a smile, and then in a splash he was gone, underneath the waves. He left behind only a spray of droplets that arced, glittering through the air, before they fell back down to the water and disappeared as well.

 

John emerged from the cave shortly after, stepping out, blinking, into the bright sunlight. He held his pail in one hand, filled with shells and stones, but the special stone, the token, he’d slipped carefully into the pocket of his red swim trunks. 

“John!” Harry said, running up to him. “Were you in the cave? Oh my god! What were you doing playing in the cave? Oh, you will be in so much trouble when I tell Mummy.”

“Okay,” said John. “And then Mummy’ll know you let me play in the cave because you were watching me, right?”

“You little _brat_ ,” Harry hissed, and grabbed John’s wrist to drag him along. “Come here - oh my god, is that blood?” Her face paled as she lifted his arm up, noting the streaks of red down to his elbow. “Bloody hell,” she swore, and John gasped at her bad language. “There’s so much! Did you cut yourself? How did you do that?”

She touched it with trembling fingers, and breathed out deeply. “Oh thank goodness, it’s dried. Does it hurt?”

John shook his head no. It had only hurt for a second, just like Sherlock had said it would.

“Right. Let’s just wash it off, then!” Harry said, and she shook her head. Her words were a bit too loud, and they came out a bit too fast. “This might sting a little.” She splashed seawater over John’s arm, scrubbing at the blood. John tensed - would she see the bite that Sherlock had left on him? And would she believe him, if he said that he had only gotten bitten by a very small shark?  

“That's strange,” Harry murmured. “There’s no cut or anything.” John looked down at his wrist, and saw only smooth flesh, lightly tanned from playing in the sun. “You must have just scraped it against something. I don't know how you managed that. That was a lot of blood.”

"Don't you dare do anything like that again, you hear me?" Harry said, and then she cleared her throat to release the tremble from her voice. "You could have gotten killed or kidnapped! Mum and Dad would have my head!"

"Nuh uh," John protested, slipping his hand into Harry's.

"Just...don’t wander off on your own again. And stay away from the water, all right? It’s dangerous!” Harry chided him, giving his hand a little shake.

“All right,” John said. He looked out to the sea. He watched the waves rise and fall, the ocean pushing steadily towards the shore, encroaching upon the land.

The tide was starting to come in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the amazing cutie baby beekitten [p-chi](http://p-chi.tumblr.com/) for being so wonderful and cute! Thank you so so much to the wonderful [ prettyarbitrary](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary) for the beta and hand-holding ;; 3 ;; ♥ 
> 
> Also, please look at this amazing art by p-chi!!
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> [ Reblog here!](http://p-chi.tumblr.com/post/63077878575/for-michi-well-kinda-since-it-was-mainly-for-my)  
> 

* * *

 

 

There was sand all over the house.

It was natural, of course, for a pleasant little cottage house near the shores of West Wittering beach, populated by a family of four (six if one included the dog and cat), to come upon its fair share of sand. Particularly during the summer months, and particularly when that family of six included a quite rambunctious young girl and a very active small boy along with the dog and the cat.

But most sand stayed where it ought to, in the front hall and in the foyer, occasionally tracked into the entrance of the sitting room or perhaps the kitchen. Sometimes sand roamed into the bath, as sand was wont to do, especially when one had children - and occasionally a dog - shedding off the signs of the beach from that day.

About a month and a half ago, however, Hazel Watson had begun to find sand in places where sand ought not to be. The nursery, for one. And the children’s rooms - actually, specifically, John’s room, scattered all over the carpet, grit crunching underneath her slippered foot if she tracked it back out to the hall. Strangest of all was the sand in John’s bed when she went to make it in the morning, softly rustling out onto the floor when she pulled off the blanket. It sprinkled out like fairy dust when she shook out the sheets. She even found it in the pockets of his pyjamas.

John was soundly scolded for not wiping his feet when he came in from play, and reminded that he must always bathe before bedtime. She changed the sheets. She dusted and she swept, and hoovered corner to corner, listening to the satisfying sound of tiny grains rattling about in a plastic tube.

A few days later, the sand would be back. John was scolded time and time again, and he would protest, “But Mummy, I do!” every time she told him to clean off before bed. She told him she didn’t fancy him turning their house into the bottom of an hourglass. When he came in from outside, he was marched straight upstairs for a bath. New house rules were put into place: all shoes to be taken off outside, and left in the foyer.

But still, there was sand.

It was driving Hazel a little batty, to be quite honest, but she supposed that these things were par the course if one lived with two children, and a cat and a dog, in a quaint little house by the sea.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the front door slamming shut awakened Hazel in bed one night. They always locked the front door at night, and so she froze, the muscles in her arms and her chest hard and tense, listening in the darkness.

“Tom!” she said, shaking Mr. Watson. He was sound asleep next to her. “Thomas, wake up, I heard something at the door.”

Tom snorted, the way one does when awoken halfway through a snore. “Go back to sleep, Hazel,” he mumbled. “I’m sure it was just the wind.”

“It was the door shutting,” she insisted, “the front door.”

But he had rolled over already, lost to her once more.

She lay in bed with her eyes wide open, blanket clutched tight in both hands. She could feel her nails cutting into her palms even through the softness of the blanket.

There was a noise downstairs. Movement.

And then - the small, thudding footsteps of a little body ascending the stairs. The familiar creaking of the third stair, the way it always did underneath the weight of a human body.

She pushed back the covers and leapt out of bed. Her breath and heart both fast in her chest, she slowly cracked open the bedroom door.

“John!”

Oh, it was just John. Her darling little boy, John, in his pyjamas, having climbed up the stairs and headed towards his own bed. It was funny, how the quiet, strange hours of the middle of the night turned the ordinary into the extraordinary, turned one’s little loved ones into fearsome strangers. She wanted to laugh at her own silliness, until she realised that she had heard the front door close, and that John had not responded to her voice.

“John?” she said, into the darkness.

John swayed on his little feet, standing there in the middle of the hallway. The movement was small and graceful, almost as if he were moving to some music that she could not hear. His eyes were closed.

From the waist down, he was covered in sand.

“John!” Hazel said, kneeling in front of him. She did not like the high note that her voice ended upon when she said his name, and she grasped him by his small shoulders to hold him. She was afraid to shake him, because she had heard somewhere that one must not wake a sleepwalker. “John, it’s Mummy, Johnny, darling.”

John mumbled something in his sleep, a little nonsense phrase that Hazel did not understand. _Sure lock?_ What could that possibly mean?

It didn’t matter. Little thing was dreaming. She tried not to think about how he’d gotten out of the house. She tried not to think about the idea of her little boy, wandering all alone on a beach at night. He could have been snatched up by a stranger, he could have walked straight into the water. She shuddered.

“Come, let’s get you back into bed,” she said, and took him by the hand.

John allowed himself to be led easily enough, no real resistance to his soft little limbs. His small fingers were cold in her hand. “What a mess, John,” she chided, her voice overly loud and falsely cheerful.

“You love playing on the beach so much, don’t you?” she said, needing the sound of a human voice in the eerie stillness.

John was silent.

_like a doll come to life, and if they cut him open they would find sawdust or cotton or clockwork and no blood or organs at all_

“All right, time to get you cleaned up!” Hazel chirped.

When they got to his bedroom she stripped him of his sandy pyjamas, helping him change into something clean before she put him into bed. She tucked him in, the blankets tight around him, cocooning him up as tightly as she wanted to hold him, but did not dare to. He settled in peacefully, sighing softly and cooing, sandy lashes resting upon round cheeks. Cherubic and picturesque in his slumber, as if he had spent the whole night in bed, never once stirring.

Hazel shivered, although the night was not a cold one.

She considered locking the door to John’s room - but then, what if he woke up, and was afraid? What if he needed to come to his parents’ room? She considered taking him back to sleep with her and Tom, but John was getting a bit big for that. Tom would say that she was babying him again. She settled with closing the door tightly, and then she went downstairs to double-bolt the front door, checking and re-checking the locks that John could not reach. There. That would ensure, at least, that if John wandered, he would stay within the confines of the house.

She went back to bed then, but she did not sleep. Instead she lay awake, eyes and ears open, waiting for sound. She lay very still and tried not to think about that strange phrase that tumbled around her mind in the darkness - _sure lock, sure lock, what an odd thing to say, sure lock_ \- until the sky started to lighten and the birds began to chirp, and exhaustion claimed her at last.

 

* * *

 

“Sleepwalking is not uncommon in young children,” Tom reminded her. “That’s what Dr. Mullaley said.”

“I know,” said Hazel, who did.

“I’m sure he’ll grow out of it,” Tom said, rubbing her arm reassuringly. “They usually do.”

“I know,” said Hazel, and then she sipped her tea, for she was a logical woman.

They took to locking John’s door at night as well as the front door, per Dr. Mullaley’s recommendation. Hazel swept the halls and scrubbed the floors and hoovered the carpets, until there was no sand anymore.

But sometimes she would hear it: the soft _thud thud thud_ , over and over, the sound of a small body thumping against the door. Sometimes it happened in short bursts, 15 or 20 or 30 minutes, maybe an hour. Afterwards she assumed that John went back to bed, properly - and sometimes he wouldn’t make it there - she would find him curled up in a heap on the floor when she went to check on him.

And then, other times, the thudding went on all night.

But John was safe, which was the important thing. He did not seem negatively affected by his bouts of sleepwalking at night, did not seem to even remember them come morning. He was as fairly well-rested as one could expect a small boy to be. She was the one who could not sleep, twisting about in the sheets, readjusting her pillow over and over, laying right laterally, and then laying left. There was a sickness that swam about in her stomach, and it sloshed from side to side. The feeling wriggled and twisted, as if her gastrointestinal system had become home to a vat of quivering eels.

Tom slumbered peacefully next to her, completely unaware.

 _He is safe,_ she told herself as she listened to the door knocking, rocking against a frame, the soft _thud thud thud_ of a body against it.

 

* * *

 

“John,” Hazel said over breakfast one morning, after Mr. Watson had left for work. She kept her voice casual as she slathered raspberry jam on his toast. “Do you know what ‘sure lock’ means?”

John did not look up from his plate; he was very busy poking his beans around with his fork to form a crooked smiley face. “No, Mummy,” he said.

“What does it mean?” he asked, in the way that children do when they expect an adult to have all the answers.

“Never mind,” Hazel said. She shook her head. “Now what did I say about playing with your food?”

 

* * *

 

The digits on the clock glowed red: **12:30**. Hazel awoke in the darkness at exactly half past midnight. She’d only just fallen asleep, less than an hour ago. The house was still, occasionally creaking its old familiar sounds, and Mr. Watson was asleep beside her, occasionally making his old familiar sounds.

But something inside of her stirred; a strange, off-kilter feeling as if her bones were on a tilt, as if the blood in her body were running backwards through her veins. _It is now the witching hour_ , came an unbidden thought, and she didn’t know where it had come from. It was not something that Hazel Watson would normally think.

The moon shone bright through the bedroom window; it was full that night and it gleamed like ivory.

 _Ivory,_ came the thought. _Animal bones and tusks and teeth. Cages of bone, bleached by the sun, glowing white in the moonlight…_

It was that kind of feeling. It was that kind of night.

Hazel got out of bed, putting her feet in her slippers and pulling on her robe. Something was wrong. She could not explain it, but she was sure of it.

She made her way down the hall, stopping briefly to peek in on Harriet. Harry was asleep, curled around the cat, who was also asleep on her bed.

The door to John’s room was slightly open. Hazel’s heart rocketed into her throat.

“John?” she tentatively asked the quiet room. She didn’t want to wake anybody. No need to get all worked up for no reason. She pushed the door all the way open. The room was empty, moonlight shining onto a little bed with the duvet thrown off. The sheets were wrinkled, the pillow indented with the recent shape and weight of a small blond head.

John was missing.

“John!” Hazel shouted, as if her little boy was only hiding, playing a game. Her voice was loud in the night; large in the small, dark room. She could fill up every corner with it.

No answer came.

Hazel ran down the stairs, and threw open the front door.

“ _John!_ ” she called out into the night. The front door banged on its hinges behind her.  
The night was dark and deep and vast, and it swallowed her voice.

 _The sea!_ Oh God. She ran down towards the beach, screaming John’s name. The wind whipped her hair into a sandy cloud around her face, her robe and nightgown flapping against her legs. “John!” she cried. The wind carried his name away.

The water looked black in the moonlight, hungrily lapping at the shore. High tide. The ocean was coming in. Hazel thought of searchlights on the water, of dogs and police boats and of empty nets, nothing found. Water churned inside her stomach, black and restless. She felt seasick.

 _“JOHN!”_ Her voice broke with desperation. The wind stung the wetness on her cheeks.

And then, as she got closer to the water, she saw him.

John was up to his chest in the water, giggling and splashing. That was not the sight that stopped Hazel dead in the sand.

John was not alone.

There was something in the water with him, a thing of pallor and shadow. Its sleek dark head was small like a child’s, although Hazel knew that it was not a child. It was not human. Its skin was pale and milky, wet and gleaming in the moonlight - _like ivory, like bone, like skeletons bleached in the sun_. The eyes were the worst: large and luminous and glassy, like those of deep-sea fish that never saw the light of day. They seemed to glow with an unholy light.

Its wet, white arms were wrapped tightly around her child.

Hazel screamed. She did not intend to scream. She could not help it. The horror burst from inside of her, it rushed out of her throat and flooded loudly out of her wide-open mouth.

It turned its head and looked directly at her. Those horrible lambent eyes burned like coals in the darkness; they were burning, staring at her.

The thing released John and slipped, quickly, underneath the waves.

She threw herself, running, down the beach, kicking up bursts of sand. She ran straight into the water, legs pumping, churning the waves up around her. The water weighed down her robes and her nightgown, and still she kept running. She did not stop until she reached John’s side, panting, and snatched him up into her arms with a half-swallowed sob.

“John!” Hazel said, burying her face against his small, warm body as she stood there, up to her thighs in the ocean water, shaking with both fear and relief. “Oh my god, John, Johnny, my boy.”

John did not answer her. He was, to all appearances, fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

“How could you forget to check if the door was locked?” Hazel whisper-shouted. She suddenly wanted a cigarette. She had not smoked since before Harriet was born. Instead she got up to put the kettle on for tea. “How many times have I said that door needs to be locked? He could have drowned!”

“For God’s sake, Hazel! It was locked when I went up to bed!” Tom whispered harshly back at her. They both badly wanted to shout, but it was still the middle of the night, and both the children were in their beds.

“Well, he must have gotten out somehow!” Hazel hissed. “If I didn’t forget to lock it, and you didn’t forget to lock it, and John can’t reach the locks, then _how did he get out_?”

“I don’t know!” whispered Tom, who wisely did not accuse Hazel of being the one who had forgotten to lock the door. “I do know that door was locked. There must be some explanation.”

There had to be some explanation. There was always some explanation. Hazel wrapped her arms around herself.

“I saw something, Tom,” she said, after a moment. She shuddered to remember it. “There was...something in the water with him.”

“What, like a fish? A porpoise? You know there’s never been a shark sighting at this beach.”

“I’m serious, Thomas!”

“So am I.”

“There was something there. It was...it was some sort of creature.”

“A creature? Some kind of animal?”

“No...not an animal. I don’t know what it was. It was like a child...but not. It was something else.” Hazel shook her head. “It sounds crazy, I know. And it was...touching him, Tom. I saw it.”

Those awful small, clutching hands. Those eyes. So large and pale, fixed upon her with a cold, unblinking stare. Hazel shuddered. She felt frost forming in her bone marrow.

“Shh, come here,” Thomas said, and he wrapped his arms around her. His body was warm, but Hazel still felt cold. “I know you’re not crazy. But it’s late, and you’d only just woken up. You haven’t been sleeping well lately. You were probably still dreaming. That can happen sometimes.”

“It can,” Hazel said, although she knew she was as wide awake then as she was now. More awake, even, made hyper-alert with adrenaline and fear. She closed her eyes and let Tom tuck her head underneath his chin.

“It’s been a scary, stressful night for all of us. But for you especially. I can’t even imagine it.” He kissed her forehead. “Look, here’s what we’ll do. Tomorrow I’ll go down to the hardware store and buy a bolt for the door and another lock for John’s room. We’ll make sure John never gets out again. Then you don’t have to worry anymore, all right?”

“All right,” said Hazel, and shivered.

The kettle began to whistle, and then it began to scream.

 

* * *

 

The sun was shining bright on a Saturday afternoon, so they headed down to the beach as a family.

Harriet was playing with that little neighbour girl… Lara or Laura or Cara or something. Hazel had left her with specific instructions to look after John, and at the moment it seemed that the three of them were involved in a splash fight.

Tom rustled the paper next to her, reading the weekend sports pages. Hazel sighed and went back to her book, _Lost at Sea - a tale of Romance and Misadventure on the High Seas!_

When she looked up again, Harriet and the girl were splashing at each other. John was playing by himself in the waves, looking down into the water and watching the waves and sand carve new paths around his feet.

She went back to her novel. She was trying to be interested in the sordid escapades of Veronica Valance and Captain Blackheart aboard the Burning Passion.

When she looked up again, Harriet and the girl - Carla - were doing handstands in the water. And John was…

She couldn’t see John.

Panic sank its claws into her throat.

“Tom!” Hazel said, shaking Mr. Watson. “I can’t see John!”

“He’s out there with Harry. I’m sure he’s just swimming in the water.”

Hazel looked out at the water. There was Harry, there was Cara, there was no sign at all of a little blond head bobbing in the water. “No!” She sprang to her feet, fear making her voice high. “I can’t see him!”

Tom got to his feet as well, throwing his newspaper aside. The two of them rushed to the water, screaming John’s name. Her husband headed for Harriet; Hazel could hear him demanding to know where her brother was.

“He was just here, Dad, I swear!” Harriet insisted.

Hazel splashed through the water, turning around and around until her head was spinning. Water, water, all around and the blue sky above. No sign of John.

“John!” she screamed, “John!” - until her voice was hoarse. There was no reply.

Thomas was speaking to the lifeguard on duty, who had not seen anything either.

The tide. John had stood there on the wet sand and watched as the waves flooded over him and then retreated, pulling with it sand and bits of seaweed. Over and over the waves washed up on the sand and washed away again. Little by little, the water had washed away her little boy. He could have been caught in a riptide, he could have been tugged out to sea. He was a good swimmer but what was a small boy against the force of an ocean?

“ _No!_ ” Hazel yelled out, to nobody in particular.

The lifeguard was using his bullhorn to call the other swimmers to shore. They had to evacuate the water for the search. Hazel was turning round and round, she was splashing wildly from side to side, but all she could see was water, water on all sides of her.

Her lungs felt like they were filling up with saltwater, brackish and dark. She gasped for air. She could not breathe. She was drowning with her head above water.

“John!” she screamed. The roar of the ocean was in her ears, the wailing cry of gulls overhead.

And then, suddenly - a little blond head popped through the crest of a wave, breaking through seafoam.

“John!” Hazel cried in relief, splashing over to him. He had emerged from the depths, sleek as a baby seal, dripping wet with seawater.

“Mummy!” he said happily, shaking himself off like a small, very energetic dog. With the back of one small hand he wiped the water from his eyes.

“Oh, John, John my dear heart, you’ve given Mummy such a fright!” Hazel threw her arms around him.

“But why, Mummy?” John asked, blinking away the drops of water from his dark gold lashes. “I was only swimming.”

_Had he been underwater this whole time? Impossible._

“What have I told you about swimming where Mummy can’t see you?” Hazel scolded. “You’ve frightened me and Daddy and a whole heap of other people!”

“But I was right here!” John protested.

Hazel did not answer. She clutched John’s small, wet body to hers and carried him to shore. She did not put him down until they were high up the beach, firmly on dry land.

 

* * *

 

They would not return to the beach for the rest of that summer.

 

* * *

 

Hazel could see the ocean from the sitting room window. She could see the ocean from the kitchen window. She could see the ocean from John’s window, from the toilet window, from her bedroom window, and she hated it, hated it greatly and irrationally and with a deep and unforgiving passion.

 

* * *

 

“John, get away from the window!”

“But Mummy…” John protested, even as he allowed himself to be pulled away.

“You know why! It’s dangerous to be near the windows during a storm!”

“I was watching the water,” John said. “The sea is coming up to meet us.”

Hazel looked. It had rained a lot that last week in July, and the ocean was heavy with it, the waves large and swollen. The sky was dark and the wind whipped through the trees as the rain pelted down in sheets of water. The sea was rising with the storm, and it appeared to be coming closer.

The sea was rising. It would flood over the dunes and come up to their doorstep. The water would wash over the primroses and peonies in her flowerbed, drowning them. Seawater would seep underneath the door, into the front hallway. The locks would not be able to hold back the tide. The door would open and the water would come rushing in, flooding the house, filling up every room, coming for them, coming for John…

“Come help Mummy with dinner, John,” Hazel said. “You can make animals out of the dough and then we’ll bake them.”

“Can I make a whale?”

“You can make a whole pod of whales.”

John smiled. Hazel took his hand to lead him into the kitchen, deeper into the safety of the house, away from the windows with their view of the angry sea.

 

* * *

 

Hazel could not sleep over the noise of the wind and the waves. The wind was howling outside the house, as if it were goading itself into a fury; the ocean an endless roar, so loud and so close it was like a whisper in her ear.

The sea was already so close to them, and now it was coming closer.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A tree grew along the west side of the house, wrapping it up in a leafy embrace. The wind was knocking the branches against the windowpane. That was the source of the sound. It had to be, Hazel told herself, and she tried not to think about small, wet fingers with skin so pale it was like the water had leeched all the colour out.

Nothing had slithered up her garden path. Nothing was scaling up the walls of her house. Nothing pressed a small white face against the window, peering in at her children while they slept, nothing was staring at them with its large, lambent eyes, glowing and hollow…

Hazel got up out of bed, feet in her slippers and her robe clutched tightly around herself. The rain drummed down upon the windows. It was impossible to see the ocean now but she knew that it was close. She could feel the ebb and tug of it in her stomach.

The tapping sound was only the tree against the window, the banging only a loose shutter against the house. A steady _thud thud thud_ started up. That was only John - sleepwalking again. The drawn-out howling, those doleful, animal cries - that was the dog.

Hazel walked down the stairs to find Gladstone baying at the front door. “Shush!” she hissed sharply, clapping her hands, but the dog did not quiet. He would not hush no matter how she scolded or yelled. Gladstone knew, the way that animals always had an instinct for such things, that the storm was closing in upon them.

The wind was crying outside. Its voice was a high-pitched shriek. The thudding got louder, faster. The wind was wailing. The tapping grew more insistent.

They were surrounded by water. There would be no escape.

The dog barked ferociously at something unseen. The banging grew louder, and louder still, knocking on the house.

Hazel reached for the door, hand trembling.

_Nothing had come up from the dark and angry water, nothing had slithered onto the sand, nothing was waiting outside…_

Hazel threw open the door; her mouth opened with a yell. There was nothing there. The rain struck her in the face with hundreds of tiny blows; the wind howled back, trying to push the door out of her grip.

“You can’t have him!” she screamed out into the night. The wind stung her eyes with its harshness. “You can’t! You can’t!”

Her words were stolen away from her, strangled in the grip of a sharp wind. She could not tell if the water on her face was tears or rain.

 

* * *

 

“ ...Tom found me all soaked to the bone. What could I possibly have told him? I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t shake this feeling. There was something out there that night.”

“Have you ever heard of pareidolia, Mrs. Watson?”

“No,” Hazel answered. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the term.”

“Pareidolia,” said Dr. Lawrence, “Is the very natural psychological phenomenon of finding meaning in the meaningless, to recognize patterns when there are none. It is the reason why some people find a man’s face on a moon crater, or Jesus on a slice of toast. While some might say it is an overactive imagination hard at work, it can happen to the most logical and rational beings among us. The brain tries to make sense of its surroundings. When those so-called paranormal investigators say they hear ghostly voices on their recordings, that is simply a form of auditory pareidolia. Sometimes a toasted cheese sandwich is just a toasted cheese sandwich.”

The Psychiatrist’s office was painted in a calming, hideous peach; quaint pictures of lighthouses hung on the walls next to Dr. Lawrence’s framed degrees. Hazel was not lying down on a couch; instead she tried not to swivel about in her comfortable leather chair.

“I’m not seeing things or hearing voices. I’m not.” She looked the Psychiatrist dead in the eye.

“No, no, of course not,” agreed the Psychiatrist. “But neither is the ocean a malevolent force out to steal your child.”

Hazel laughed. “Of course it sounds mad when you phrase it like that.”

“I’m glad you can laugh,” smiled Dr. Lawrence. “It’s very healthy to be able to laugh at oneself. And while I don’t like to use those words, ‘mad’ or ‘crazy’ - you are neither mad or crazy. You have been under a lot of stress lately, I understand. You report that you haven’t gotten a full night’s worth of sleep in months. You say that your appetite has been poor. This all started when John began sleepwalking. Naturally, your greatest fear is that he will come upon some danger - most likely wander into the water - and you will be unable to protect him. Therefore you have begun to personify the ocean. You fear its unknown depths, its possible danger. This is all very reasonable.”

“Yes,” said Hazel, for she was a reasonable woman. She did not mention the small, white hands and large, hollow eyes for the same reason.

“My recommendation is a holiday,” said Dr. Lawrence. “I will write you a prescription for some low dosage anti-anxiety medication that may help, but the most important thing is for you to get away for some real relaxation. Perhaps a little jaunt to the countryside will do you right.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hazel, who needed to get away. Away from the ocean with its small, grasping hands.

“Stop by the reception desk on your way out. We’ll make an appointment for next month.”

“Of course,” said Hazel. “Thank you, Doctor.”

 

* * *

 

Hazel began to feel better when they hit the M27, and the feeling only improved the longer that they drove. Highway in front of her, the ocean further and further behind her.

The tide was pulling away.

John and Harriet were arguing over the correct identification of a bird that they had seen. They had been playing a game that involved shouting out the different things they spotted along the road, but currently just seemed to involve a lot of shouting.

“It was a falcon!” John insisted.

“John, you don’t even know what a falcon looks like,” Harriet returned.

“I do so!” John said. “It was either a falcon or some kind of eagle or maybe a crane.”

“Those don’t look anything alike!”

“It was a great big white bird and I saw it,” John said.

“Mummy,” said Harry, “Tell John to stop making up lies about things that he saw.”

“I didn’t make it up, I saw it, it was flying right behind us.” John pointed. “Oh, look, there it is again!”

“Why, that’s an albatross,” said Tom.

“See?” said Harry. “I told you it wasn’t a falcon.”

“But I bet you didn’t know it was an alpatross,” said John to Harry.

“You know, sailors used to say that being followed by an albatross was a good omen,” said Tom. “Maybe we’ll have some nice weather for our holiday.”

“That’d be nice,” Hazel said.

“I wonder what he’s doing so far from home, though,” said Tom. “Must be lost.”

“I’d be a good sailor,” John decided.

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Harry.

“Would so,” John insisted.

“Look, children,” said Hazel, “Cows.”

The children were delighted by the cows, and, later on, the chickens and sheep that they passed. Tom sang along to the radio, only slightly off-key, but with all the wrong words ( _Hold me closer, Tony Danza_ ; and _I can see Cleary now, Lorraine is gone_ ) so that Hazel would get fake-annoyed and make the children laugh.

The sun shone down on the little car with its family inside, the countryside scrolling merrily by.

It was going to be a good day.

 

* * *

 

The Wiltshire countryside boasted rolling green hills, dotted with trees. Hazel had never been so happy to see trees and hills in her life.

Her parents were both practical people who did not believe in uncertain things like nighttime nightmare creatures or psychiatry. This year they were trying their hand at gardening vegetables - and roses, her father always chimed in.

They were starting a turnip garden, her mother said.

“It’s radishes,” her father corrected. “The red ones.”

“I think some turnips are red. Or pinky-purple,” said her mother.

“I thought turnips were white,” her father said.

“I think you’re thinking daikon, darling,” said her mother. “And that’s a radish. More tea?”

“Yes, please,” said Hazel.

“And the tomatoes are coming in nicely, a good size, although we’re worried because they’re a bit yellow.”

“They’re probably sick,” her father added.

“And the zucchinis are coming in! So many zucchinis!”

“Far too many zucchini. Hundreds of the things. No one told us they grew twenty to a vine.”

“You’ll have to take some zucchini home with you, dear. We’ve already given a bunch of them away and they just keep coming in!”

“There’s just no stopping them,” her father said.

 

Harriet and John both volunteered to help out in the garden, although Harry soon grew bored of picking strawberries and began chasing the dog around instead. John, on the other hand, was a bit _too_ helpful and ended pulling up bunches of parsley and thyme, mistaking them for weeds. His grandmother smiled and shrugged, the way that grandmothers are wont to do, and said, “I’ll put it in a stew tonight.”

For dinner they had zucchini bread and zucchini pie with the stew. The children surprisingly enjoyed the pie, even though John declared it “very too much green.”

The adults had adult conversation; discussions about the rising price of petrol, what they thought of Prime Minister Thatcher, the fact that Mrs. Harold down the road had bought a flashy new car and so soon what with her husband passing away and all, and how the fence needed mending so perhaps Tom could help with that tomorrow.

The children talked about their time in the garden; John said that he had seen at least five ladybugs, but Harry had him outnumbered with seven butterflies. They were all amused by a story about the Peterson’s young billy goat jumping his enclosure and wandering his way into town.

“Completely ruined Eunice Beckett’s beautiful tulips, he did. Stomped right through them. You remember the Becketts, don’t you Hazel? Oh, sure you do. That boy of theirs? Anyway, I digress. That goat was a menace. He ate people’s post and bit the milkman. Can you imagine? A goat rampaging through town! Have you ever heard of a wilder thing?”

“No, Mum,” said Hazel. “I suppose that I haven’t.”

And all the Watsons, big and small, agreed.

 

* * *

 

Hazel started awake in the guest room, with great surprise. She had been woken by the first early rays of sun, for it was morning. She had slept the whole night through.

She had fallen asleep listening for the thudding sound from the children’s room, that never came.

The sun had finally come out, after long days of rain.

 

* * *

 

And so the days passed cheerfully. John and Harriet spent a day hunting frogs (technically toads) where the first one to catch a frog meant that the other had to kiss it, to see if it might turn into a person. This then turned into an afternoon spent hunting the dog, as an overexcited Gladstone saw a rabbit and chased it into the woods.

By the time the children returned, they were happily exhausted, hungry, and in dire need of baths.

Hazel had left John in the bath 20 minutes ago, and now she was returning to check on him. He was old enough to bathe himself, but he still needed reminders to scrub and wash behind his ears. Such activities were often forgotten when one was busy splashing around and playing battleship with the sponges.

“John?” Hazel knocked on the door. There was no sound from inside the bathroom, not even those of water splashing or childish imitations of explosions.

“John?” Hazel said, not liking the way her voice instinctively rose. The fear, once forgotten, slid sly fingers around her throat and squeezed.

She pushed open the bathroom door and screamed at what she found: John, her little boy, completely submerged in the water.

If one were to look at him, he would appear to be sleeping. His little body laid out, naked and still, sunken underneath 16 inches of water. His arms floated at his sides, his entire body suspended in the water. The surface of the water was as smooth as glass; the fairytale coffin that held him.

“John!” Hazel immediately reached into the tub and yanked him out, dousing herself with a wave of still-warm water. Water spilled all over the bathroom floor, soaking into the rugs. He was completely limp in her arms. No matter how she shook him, he did not respond.

His lashes were little slivers of wet gold against his round cheeks; his hair plastered down in dark gold curls against his sweet brow. He was a heavy doll in her arms. There were no signs of life.

He wasn’t breathing.

Hazel wailed, loud and long, pitched in the tones of sheer heartbreak. It was a sound that only a mother can know.

“John,” she sobbed, “ _John!_ My baby boy, oh no no no no no no nono…”

“ _HELP!_ ” she screamed, staggering to her feet, John gathered up in her arms. Her entire front was soaked with bathwater. She struggled to open the bathroom door. “ _Tom! Mum! Dad! Help, somebody for the love of God, HELP!”_

They were not coming, help was not coming, and she had lost him, she had lost her boy, all hope was lost...

Suddenly, John opened his eyes and blinked at her.

“Mummy, why are you crying?” he asked her, in his familiar little voice. His breath was formed by small lungs that were not filled with water.

Hazel froze, staring down at him.

A loud, urgent banging came from outside the bathroom door. “Hazel, what’s wrong? Open the door! I heard you screaming. Is everything all right?”

She crumpled to the floor, a confused John bundled up in her arms. Holding him tight to her chest, she rocked back and forth, back and forth.

“Hazel, _open the door!_ ”

“What’s wrong, Mummy?”

Hazel could not tell him. She sobbed and sobbed, trembling with that which she did not understand.

 

* * *

 

“So, he was under the water. I understand you’re frightened, but he was only playing. You know how little boys are.”

“No, Tom. I know what 'just playing' looks like. He wasn’t breathing! He was completely still, I was certain he’d drowned!”

“We’ll talk to him about not scaring his mother like that again --”

“You’re not listening to me! It wasn’t playing. He wasn’t breathing at _all_.”

“That’s not possible. He’s perfectly fine now.”

“I know it’s not possible! Do you think I don’t know that? But then there’s the sleep-walking, and that...that _thing_ I saw, and the storm that night...There’s something out there, Tom. I saw it, I know I did. I wasn’t dreaming! It wants him, it wants our boy...”

“Are you taking your medication?”

“For once in twelve miserable years could you stop doubting me, Thomas!”

“You’re scaring me, Hazel.”

“I’m scared, Tom. I’m so scared.”

 

* * *

 

The ride back to West Wittering was silent and tense. The radio was playing, but no one sang along.

Hazel rested with her head upon her hand, propped up against the window, not sleeping.

In the backseat, Harriet and John were engaged in a hand game.

_“A sailor went to sea sea sea_  
_to see what he could see see see_  
_but all that he could see see see_  
_was the bottom of the deep blue sea sea sea!_

_A sailor went to sea sea sea_  
_to see what he could see see see_  
_but all that he could see see see_  
_was the bottom of the deep blue--”_

“Shh!” Hazel shushed sharply. “Mummy needs her rest.”

The children stopped abruptly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hazel spotted a flash of white. A large bird with great dark wings, white on the underside, was flying overhead. It disappeared from her field of vision and then reappeared again, as if it might be following them.

When she lifted her head up to look, however, it was gone.

 

* * *

 

“I want to move.”

“We can’t move, Hazel. Do you know how lucky we are to have this house? This great location?”

“Then it’ll be easy to sell. I don’t care. I want to move away, we need to get away from the sea.”

“We’re not selling the house and uprooting the whole family because of a few nightmares!”

“We can’t stay! Our whole family’s in danger if we stay!”

“Hazel...stop it! You have to stop this nonsense! _Please, I’m begging you._ Oh God. No, don’t cry.”

 

* * *

 

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

“Tom! Tom, wake up!”

“What is it…?”

“Listen! Do you hear that?”

“That? It’s just John at his door again, go back to sleep.”

“No… _listen._ ”

“Oh...Bloody hell. What _is_ that?”

The two of them stilled, petrified in their bed, listening. And there it was, curling into their ears, seeping into their bones... the ghostly, disembodied voice of a child singing, beautiful and pure, carried on the night wind.

 

* * *

 

The house sold easily enough, to a well-off couple looking for an investment property. The Watsons had a bit of money saved up, to send the children to good schools when they were old enough. They dipped into that fund a bit, in order to help with the move.

Their new flat was in Birmingham; it was considerably smaller than their lovely cottage, and the rent was a touch high, but Tom managed to transfer his position to a bank in town. Hazel found work at a clinic two stops away from home. It would take the children a little while to integrate into the school system, but children were nothing if not resilient. They would adapt soon, and make new friends.

A new place, a new start.

 

Unpacking would take two weekends’ worth of work, at least. The sooner she got it done, the better. Hazel opened one of the boxes and lifted one of John’s little jumpers out.

Sand spilled, whispering, all over the floor.

There was sand everywhere.

There was sand all over the house.

Hazel shook; she could not stop shaking. She put her face in her hands. There was an ocean in her tears, the ocean on her tongue, heavy and bitter with salt.


End file.
